


Shadows of the Twisted Land

by SnarkySharke



Series: Fate Drabbles [2]
Category: Fate/Grand Order, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms, Fate/stay night - All Media Types
Genre: And incest obviously, Angst, But isn't that just Arthurian myth in a nutshell?, Gen, PS Nobody can convince me that Mo and Lance aren't sad bros together, implications of rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:00:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23210608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnarkySharke/pseuds/SnarkySharke
Summary: Camlann:possibly derived from BrittonicCambo-landa("crooked/twisting-enclosure" or "crooked/twisting open land"), or (less likely)Cambo-glanna("crooked/twisting bank (of a river)"), as found in the name of the Roman fort ofCamboglanna(Castlesteads) in Cumbria.
Series: Fate Drabbles [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1597582
Comments: 8
Kudos: 45





	Shadows of the Twisted Land

**Author's Note:**

> Brief explanation on "exactly when people get summoned" in my head (does anyone think about that? I think about that). My fics essentially go on the general premise that Servants are summoned immediately after the Singularity/event where they first appear, or whenever they are available to summon, whichever comes later (so Cu Chulainn after Singularity F, Mordred after London, Lancelot after Zero/Accel, etc). Also, since incoherent Berserkers don't make for very good literary subjects, I'll substitute them for other versions of themselves (like Lancelot; and since Saber Lance was added to the general summoning pool and not only the story banner, it sort of plays by the rule, no?).
> 
> Er, anyway, that's probably more info than is even necessary here, so go on, get reading.

Father was _everywhere._

First it was “Alter,” who had been summoned just before Mordred. The only real fundamental differences between her and the Father Mordred knew seemed to be that she was rude, but had a cooler sense of style. She treated Mordred with distaste, but also seemed to respect her, and she treated Emiya as if he was her personal servant. Also, the first thing she had done was decide to rebrand herself as Santa Claus. It was strange, to say the least, and she and Mordred generally kept out of each others’ ways.

Shortly after Mordred herself, another Alter -- the Lancer form she herself had fought in London, according to Master. But she had apparently beaten her well, and the “King of Storms”, as she called herself, was uninterested in most things. She kept her own distance, and Mordred felt little need to seek her out. It only made her life easier if they all stayed out of her way.

Then it was Lily. Mordred was hardly able to fathom her -- so warm and naive, entirely unlike the King she knew, and although she recognized her son, she seemed equally unable to fathom her. They were awkward, but they were comrades. It was difficult to even think of each other as their legends painted them.

Finally, after that business in Fuyuki, it was Father proper -- King Arthur Pendragon. Cold and dismissive just like her Alter form, but with a righteous and overbearing perspective. Everything Mordred remembered. Everything she hated. The two knights refused to avoid one another, and the tension was evident every time both were present in a room. The only thing good to come of it was, shockingly… Lancelot, who was summoned at the same time. 

Something had seemed familiar about him, but there had been numerous “Black Knights” in their days, none of them important enough to remember, and so she didn’t care enough to seek him out, despite his skill in training. He spoke little, and almost never removed his armor. On top of that, Chaldea was quite a large facility; by chance, it was some time before he ever stumbled across Mordred out of her own armor, which magically concealed her identity in the same way Lancelot’s did.

“Who goes there -- huh?”

The black knight was sitting in a common area -- still in full armor, as always -- reading something from a datapad as she passed by on the way back to her room with a late-knight snack. Something about the voice made Mordred pause.

“ _Mordred?_ ” he breathed. “No, wait wait wait… You… Mordred! You...!?”

As he spat his final words, the knight tore the helmet from his head, and suddenly everything about him was familiar. How had she ever failed to recognize that armor, that dark plate, the gold spikes and hanging hooks?

“Lancelot?” she repeated. Immediately she wanted to punch him, but she realized she didn’t need to. Master didn’t think of her as the traitorous son, but as a valiant protector. She finally had the chance to throw his holier-than-thou attitude back at him. “Ah... Lancelot, huh?… _Pfft,_ suppose I’m not one to talk, but you got some balls showing your face here… Ah? What’s that face for?”

“I’ve never… seen your face,” the Knight of the Lake admitted. “I’m… a bit shaken.” He coughed, and failed to cover a blush.

Mordred opened and closed her mouth again, incredulously repeating what he’d said to herself.

“You…” Mordred growled. “ _Seriously?_ ”

“You’re… different than I imagined,” he said.

“Keep talking,” she warned, materializing Clarent and swinging it onto her shoulder as if it were no lighter than a feather. 

“No! I mean -- you’re pretty!” 

“That’s exactly what I mean!” Mordred yelled, leveling her sword at the man.

“I-I’m sorry!” Lancelot fumbled, “We always assumed you were dark and brooding, but you’re -- well, it makes sense, being the King’s son. You look… regal,” he decided. “Even moreso than Sir Gawain.”

Mordred recognized the instinctual flattery for what it was -- she kept her hair _under control_ at best -- but there was some echo of real respect in his tone, and it mollified her.

She huffed, shouldering Clarent again. “Whatever. Just... don’t cause any trouble, or you’ll answer to me.”

“I feel… I should be saying the same,” he responded, baffled. “You razed Camelot, did you not? Burned everything he -- she -- we strived to build.”

Mordred spat. “You betrayed the same virtues I did, _Chevalier Mal Fet._ ”

The Knight of the Lake didn’t fail to notice her avoidance, but let it slide. “I did,” he confirmed. “It’s no excuse, but -- I did it out of love. Love for the King, ironically. That was what brought Guenevere and I together.”

And with that Mordred froze. Lancelot had always been Arthur’s perfect little knight. He helped form the knights into the revolutionary heavy cavalry they needed to be in their early days, and he was unbeatable by any of them in personal combat, which in turn was a testament to his knightly integrity due to that damnable enchantment, something no amount of effort on Mordred’s part could overcome. Then he betrayed the King, and suddenly, _finally_ he was less, he was a traitor, he was _beatable_ , and with his murder of Gareth and Gaheris and Agravain, even if their blood relation to Mordred was only a vague fact to her, her hatred of him was not only reinforced but _justified_. But...

_Out of love for the King._

What was she to him? Dark and brooding, they’d always imagined. Quick to anger, overconfident, barely upholding the tenants of their order, fighting like an animal without any trace of finesse, Lancelot’s complete opposite. 

And then she’d betrayed the King, and suddenly, _finally_ she was a traitor, and with her slaying of Gawain, even if his friendship with Lancelot was all but shattered, their opinions of her--

Mordred spat again, forcing her train of thought to a halt. “Drop the act,” she demanded. “There’s no one else around, you don’t have to pretend to be level-headed. You hate me, right?”

Again, the other knight looked stunned, and seriously considered his response. 

“I suppose I truly don’t,” he answered. “Of all people... how could I?”

Mordred screwed up her face and cocked her head at him, then turned on her heel. 

“I’ll see you in training tomorrow, Lance,” she called back as she started back to her room with a flippant salute. 

“L-… _Lance_? ”

Lancelot, as things progressed, was her _friend_. That perfect facade she’d despised so much was just that: a facade. It was one both of them put up -- Gawain and Tristan as well, all the “best” of Arthur’s Table. Anger, jealousy, adultery, even outright sadism… all of them. They were just playing at being the King’s perfect little knights, at the impossible, at what only he could seem to achieve, so effortlessly, and so coldly. 

Mordred and Lancelot realized they weren’t nearly so different after all. And Mordred started to understand her own desires in a different light. She’d wanted to _help_ her Father. She didn’t care about the crown. What did it matter anymore, anyway?

That didn’t stop her blood from boiling every time the other Saber dismissed her from a conversation, or looked through her as if she were still dead at the end of her lance.

And then… Camelot. 

King Arthur’s vision, the knights’ shared dream, resurrected as a nightmare, headed by an incarnation of her father who had become a goddess of death and storms and purifying light. And a mirror image of Sir Mordred, loyal to a fault to a King who still resented her. Loyal enough to stay locked outside her own city. Loyal enough to kill her fellow knights all over again. Loyal enough to slaughter civilians. Loyal like a beaten dog. Choking, tangled in her own leash. Rabid. Putting her down was a mercy.

 _But I would have done the same._ Mordred knew it. She railed against it, would have killed that other Mordred herself, but she could feel the truth of it down to her marrow. She’d stopped sleeping, not that it was of any consequence.

And then she was _summoned._ The Lion King. Rhongomyniad. The lance that had ended Mordred’s life, that had nearly ended humanity, given form. 

“You can’t trust it!” she bellowed.

Lancelot struggled to hold her back. “Mordred--!”

“ _Their spiritron readings are definitely distinct!_ ” Romani tried to mediate over the comms. “ _This is not the Lion King! This is simply another form of Artoria Pendragon!_ ”

“As if we don’t have enough!” Mordred spat. 

To her surprise, the Lancer looked shocked, perhaps even concerned. Mordred didn’t think about it. She was glad to even dent the great King’s composure. _That’s right; your son has feelings. Does that surprise you?_

She stormed out.

“Mordred!” 

When that voice snapped out, Mordred stopped. She always did. But she didn’t come to attention or drop to a knee; she swiveled on her heel, manifesting Clarent and bringing it to bear.

“The hell do you want!?”

Artoria Pendragon, Saber, King of Knights, stood, calm and emotionless. Impeccable. Perfect. Evaluating. Always judging. 

_Always lacking._

“Have you forgotten everything of chivalry?” she asked. “She may be from an unfamiliar world, but that is still a fellow knight, come to our aid. Indeed, she is a fellow king. You must apologize.”

 _“Apologize?_ ” Mordred repeated. 

“As much as it may pain me, you are a representative of Chaldea, and of the Knights of the Round Table. You understood such things well in Camelot.”

“That’s a laugh! Since when do I represent the Round Table? Everyone knows my story, right? The traitor. The evil clone. Just tell her that. If she’s like you, that should work for her. Just leave me alone -- like you always have.”

Artoria pursed her lips as Mordred walked away. “I see. Even now, this is just how you are.”

The Knight of Rebellion wheeled again, throwing Clarent into the floor between them. It sparked with residual energy. “You _made_ me like this!” she screamed. 

Artoria just watched. 

“Say something!”

Every second felt like a strike.

“Go ahead! Say something proud and unaffected! Something wise and righteous!”

More silence. Mordred walked forward and yanked her sword out of the tiles, leveling it again at her Father. “Talk with your fists, then. Arthur Pendragon, I challenge you to single combat!”

Finally. Artoria’s eyes tightened, just a little.

“I accept your challenge. I must.”

“There you go,” Mordred sneered. “Just that little bit extra. You don’t want people _knowing_ you hate me, do you? I’ll see you in the training room, old man.”

She didn’t know where she went for the next few minutes. Behind her eyes was the thudding of her heart, like a wounded predator looking for something to lash out at. It was just like Camelot. With her helmet off for the first time, everyone _watching_ her. Everyone seeing her, and for the first time her wanting anything else. The knights all knew with a look. Mordred looked just like Arthur. _A bastard. And now disavowed._ And now the Chaldeans all knew. _A hothead. A bratty child. A problem. At it again._

It felt like she only came to when she reached the training room again.

Gawain was there. “Mordred.”

“Out of my way.”

“You can’t fight him -- er, her. She is our lord, and our uncle.”

“I’ll do whatever I damn well please!” Mordred snapped, summoning Clarent to hand almost unintentionally. “You were ready to kill me when you were first summoned. You don’t get to act like an older brother now.”

“But I _am_ your older brother,” Gawain scowled. “And a fellow knight. I’m worried, Mordred--”

She grabbed him by his stupid furry mantle and her voice dropped low. “Get the hell out of here before I kill you again.”

His face hardened. But a hand alighted on his shoulder and eased him back.

“Archer.”

“Sir Gawain,” Emiya nodded. “Let her go.”

“But--”

“ _Everyone_ is watching,” the bowman continued. “Nothing will get out of hand. But nothing will be solved by putting a wall between them. Sometimes a blood feud _must_ be dealt with, don’t you agree?”

That was a low blow. Sir Pellinore’s death at Gawain’s hands, in revenge for the father Gawain himself had helped rebel against, was a dark shadow over his vaunted reputation. But the Archer specialized in low blows.

Mordred brushed past them both.

“Mordred.”

“What the fuck is it?” she snarled.

Emiya’s face was impassive, just like Artoria’s. But there was something there -- something in his eyes. If the King quelled all her human emotions, the Counter-Guardian just seemed to wish he could. And he was weird about her -- weird about Mordred, too, at times. 

As always, his words were chosen carefully, and aimed true. “Think about what it is you really want this time.”

She should have been angry, but she wasn’t. She could have cut him down for that, but she didn’t. She knew Camlann had been pointless, and not what she’d really wanted. And she knew this was, too.

“Leave me alone.”

Father was already inside, waiting. Just like Camlann. Just like always. Like nothing could ever touch her in her radiance. Mordred didn’t give her a breath. _I’ll show you._

The horned helm reformed over her face. This wasn’t Camlann. Mordred was stronger now. Chaldea was her home more than Camelot ever was. Her Father couldn’t just walk back into her life and take control. 

With one great push the distance was crossed, and the two blades bit into each other with a thunderclap. 

“What gives you the right!?” Mordred demanded. “To act like nothing’s happened!?”

“You swore an oath!” the King ground out, pushing Mordred back and coming in with another swing. Her face was etched with real effort, what could be called anger if she’d had any emotions to show at all. “To chivalry, and to the Round Table.”

“That oath ended when you killed me,” the red Saber growled, meeting her Father strike for strike. The words had no anger themselves; it was only natural for a knight to defend himself and meet deadly force with the same. But Artoria…

“I suppose you’re right,” she said coolly. “But even as you forced my hand that day, you had already broken your oath.”

Nothing. Never. Not a single emotion at the killing of her own son. _That_ was what Mordred hated. That was what drove fury into her dragon’s heart and filled her mind with fire.

“Forced you?” she scoffed, then smiled. “The people were on _my_ side. You didn’t even _try_ to negotiate. You weren’t a king any longer; just a _tyrant._ ”

There. Her eyes flashed, her brows drove further together, and Mordred grinned. _Something._

“Well, I suppose I did force you. Someone had to force you to feel something, even if it was just the pain of betrayal.”

“Do you think that was the first time I felt betrayal?” Artoria barked, slashing furiously. Mordred met every blow perfectly, despite her opponent’s blade being rendered invisible by her noble phantasm. Instinct didn’t even come into play; Mordred knew that sword even better than she did Clarent, its length, width, weight and balance, by long years of obsessive observation. 

“You didn’t even flinch when your best friend leapt naked out of your queen’s bed!” Mordred accused. “When your court sentenced your wife to death! When your son killed your perfect nephew! And all your little minions!”

She batted her father’s blade aside brutally; she may never have gotten the killing blow at Camlann, but she had disarmed the King handily. Artoria remembered well, and maintained her grip on Excalibur this time, but she was unprepared for Mordred’s animal ferocity as she stomped her metal-clad boot against her father’s solar plexus.

As Artoria caught herself and slid to a stop, Mordred found herself fascinated by the blood coughed onto her alabaster boot. The King’s blood. _Her_ blood. She thought she could just see her reflection in that blood. Was that all she was?

She clenched her fist. “But that’s not all you’ve felt, is it? Why do you hate me!? _Father!_ ”

And she was on her again, attacking -- like a rabid dog, still tangling in the leash.

“I never hated you!” Artoria called back, blocking every wild blow. 

“Liar!” She threw her blade harder. There was no form anymore, nothing for Artoria to recognize or preempt. Mordred was fighting on animal instinct, and the only defense was instinct. 

“Am I so horrible to you!? Did you hate Mother so much!?”

“You were not fit!” the King shouted, taking a glancing blow on her bicep so she could launch a return thrust. 

It scored Morded in the gap of her armor just under the arm, painting a small spatter of blood across her gauntlet. The pain lanced across her chest. Her muscles tightened. Her face twisted. It felt like vindication.

“Say it,” she growled. “Admit you hate me!”

And she struck her father across the cheek with an armored gaunt. Her royal, youthful visage deformed under her fist. And something cracked.

“ _I never wanted you!_ ”

Mordred didn’t know what she expected. She wasn’t expecting anything. She was hardly thinking, because when she thought all she could see was her Mother, Camlann, the lance, the blank look on her Father’s face as--

And she didn’t have time to think as the invisible air wrapping Excalibur in unassailable transparency exploded, whipping her back across the training room.

Mordred scrambled back to her feet, facing her father, who stood shaking and gritting her teeth, Excalibur unveiled and glowing gold at her side. 

“What did you say...?”

The moment she pulled that sword from the stone, the girl Artoria had vanished, and the king Arthur had taken her place. She suppressed everything flawed, everything human, so that she could be the ideal king and make the right choices for her country; the kinds of choices which would mortify a good person but which a King could not afford to hesitate on. She suppressed everything for the sake of Britain, to become its singularly devoted steward and defender.

That did not mean she felt nothing.

“Did you hope you were the child of ignorance, and spurned passion?” She asked. Then she demanded. “How do you imagine your Mother conceived you!? Answer me, Mordred!”

And she closed the distance between the two Sabers again, longswords colliding in a shower of sparks and blinding flashes of gold and violet. 

“And still I have never hated you, Mordred!” Artoria repeated, hammering her sword against her son’s. “But I have _known_ you.”

“You have never known me!” Mordred spat. “You never acknowledged me even as a knight!”

“I recognized you the moment you stepped foot in my court!” her Father hissed. “Merlin showed me my future should I take up the sword -- do you think it did not include you? My death? The fall of my kingdom? Because of _you!?_ ”

Instinct answered instinct. The King of Knights bore down on the Knight of Rebellion in a frenzy not even the Battle of Camlann had pushed her to -- one borne of a lifetime of solitude and suffering, extended beyond death, through fruitless Grail Wars where she was only a killing instrument, to this: a future where all humanity was incinerated, where her failures and her son still haunted her.

“I showed you every kindness I could in taking you in! I have always known what you are! But in my arrogance and naivety I hoped to change what Merlin saw!”

“ _Kindness!?_ ” Mordred bellowed, and slid her blade around Excalibur to hit Artoria’s temple with Clarent’s pommel. “You showed me nothing! You never once even looked at me! You rejected my very existence!”

Clarent coursed with red lightning, reacting to its wielder’s heightened and turbulent state. It thrummed with Mordred’s anger and despair, and it raged against Excalibur. Mordred fought like a berserker, showing the raw ability that had bested Gawain under the light of dawn, and she loosed untamed, volatile strikes against her Father.

She swung with unimaginable strength with one hand, throwing punches with the other, forcing Artoria to answer in the same manner. She blocked Clarent with a gauntlet, parried Mordred’s fist with the blade of Excalibur. On instinct she twisted past an overreaching blow and raised Excalibur to deliver a reprimand of steel -- and Mordred’s helmed visage slammed into her nose. Clarent mercilessly smashed against her fingers, sending her holy sword of the world scattering away just as it had on that day of tragedy. On that day, fate had been written. King Arthur was legendary for a great many things. She could rival nearly any Servant. But, even as she had hoped it would be otherwise, no matter how hard she fought, there was one thing it seemed she could not overcome -- the legend of the hand that slew her, etched deeply into both their saint graphs and reinforced by widespread recognition. Against her, Mordred seemed faster, stronger, tougher. The legend of their mutual destruction, manifested in a rather one-sided fashion.

Artoria sidestepped the boot this time, but was caught by the strong metal fingers that wrapped around her neck and pushed her to the floor. She choked beneath their grip as Clarent was raised--

Artoria squirmed and bared her teeth, waiting for the blow to fall. “Finish it, then, if you must.”

“ _I loved you!_ ” Mordred screamed, her voice hoarse behind her emotionless helmet. Clarent shook in her hand, the point wavering before Artoria’s eyes. Her grip tightened gradually around her neck, then slackened suddenly, the muscles of her fingers convulsing as if fighting themselves.

“I loved you…” Mordred repeated, much quieter. So quiet, it was difficult to hear how broken her voice sounded. Something wet dripped onto Artoria’s cheek. “You didn’t have to bear that weight alone.”

With a wounded cry she threw herself to one side of Artoria, tossing Clarent clattering aside and shuddering as if in death throes on her hands and knees. 

“And yet every time I use that sword…” She sniffed. “My own Noble Phantasm forces me to re-live the pain of death I met at _your_ hands. I am constantly reminded of how my own Father killed me without a second thought… and how I killed you.”

Artoria looked at her, fists balled against the hard floor of the training room. From the moment she had confronted the King about becoming heir, it seemed, she had dispensed with her facade of pleasantries. Yet even now, she still struggled to hide the small girl she was under her armor. She had suppressed everything for the sake of King Arthur; to become his singularly devoted retainer. 

_Your way of living is wrong,_ Emiya had said to Artoria once. She did not know why he was so concerned for her well-being, but the way he looked at her… he knew. Somehow, he knew; her choices, her pain and her wish, as if they were his own. Worse, surrounded by these smiling but desperate faces, the last humans on Earth, surviving only by their small joys -- she was starting to listen.

After all, she had been given a unique chance to see for herself the end of her dream: her “perfect” Camelot, under a King of Knights free from all human flaws.

“That pain is who I am,” Mordred muttered, pushing herself up to one knee.

“Mordred,” Artoria called, her voice bruised.

The knight paused in her retreat. Attentive, as always.

“You fought… valiantly. Will you help your fallen foe to stand?”

“I…” she never finished the thought, but after a moment reached down for the King. Her hand outstretched toward Artoria hesitantly, plainly wanting to draw back, but the King clasped their gauntlets together surely. Mordred pulled her to her feet, then quickly turned away, but Artoria held fast. Mordred looked back down at their hands, uncertain.

“In trying to avoid fate, I caused it,” Artoria murmured. “It is my fault. Your pain. Gawain’s. The fall of Camelot. All of it. I don’t deserve your devotion. I was not a good enough king, not a good enough--” She faltered, and could not bring herself to say _parent._ She was still unprepared to truly acknowledge the connection. “...anything. My one wish is for it to have been someone else who drew sword from stone.”

She didn’t know what she was doing. There was no need for Mordred to know her wish, no need for her to know Artoria thought her rebellion was right, if not in goal then at least in action. 

“I know, Father.” Mordred did not look at her. Could not. “But there is no one else. There is no greater king.”

“Doff your helm,” Artoria said, without meaning to.

The knight hesitated again. Tense. Her posture said that she wanted to run away. But that was not who she was. The helm separated into fragments and folded back down neatly into Mordred’s armor. Her face was flushed with adrenaline and emotion, streaked with sweat and tears. Her flaxen hair, cut and tossed messily but also carefully braided, was matted to her forehead. Her eyes were brilliant jade, and flickered around, unable to look at her king. She was still unsure she was worthy to. 

Mordred looked like her. Of course she did, she was a clone, her offspring, but... by Merlin, she looked like her. Had her own hair been that messy in those days as a young girl? Were her own brows so severe? Her eyelashes were plainly Morgan’s. They were too fair by far for the King’s face.

“If… things had been different,” Artoria said. Stopped. Thought of Emiya. Thought of the dreams of a young farm girl with an odd tutor in white robes, before she even knew what the sword in the stone was. “I think… perhaps… I would have been proud to have a child like you.”

Mordred blinked hard, gulped at nothing, and turned away again, hair hiding her eyes. “What are you talking about,” she whispered.

“I’m not sure,” Artoria admitted. “I-I don’t know of such things -- goodbye, Mordred, you fought well.”

She made a hurried retreat. She needed distance. She was being foolish. Such things were unnecessary for a king and certainly unnecessary for a Servant who--

“F-father,” Mordred stammered from behind her. “I’m… no good at this crap either. But… well, Master said that… uh… I’m… sorry, Father. What I did, was...”

Artoria stopped, this time. The child she’d had without choice. The one who killed her. The one who brought down her kingdom. 

“... You are welcome at my table, Mordred.”

All that was the past. And perhaps Emiya was right. Although the divide between them was still great, perhaps it was better left in the past, returned there piece by piece through gradual effort, in service of some kind of future; a concept which Artoria was still trying to come to terms with.

There was no future Mordred wished for more dearly.

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote out a pretty sizeable little commentary here on my feelings on Artoria's feelings on Mordred, the idea of her conceptual weakness to Mordred ~~and dick magic~~ in combat, and how I like the idea of Mordred, Lancelot, and Artoria all bonding over their crippling senses of guilt, but it started to feel a little self-indulgent and I think I put all of those ideas into the story clearly enough, so instead I'll just say: thanks for the read, everybody!


End file.
